"Forward!"
he shouted, settled at last. The rocking motion started, jouncing him against
the sides of the chair, causing his arm to throb.
Eden
Castle, he mused with closed eyes. It would be good to be home. With his eyes
still closed, he saw the approach across Exmoor, the air changing, the salt
breeze brushing the heather, the headlands appearing, then, without warning,
the looming presence of Eden Castle, built out of the same rock upon which it
sat, the crenellated turrets and towers rising against the blue backdrop of the
channel and ocean, a true fortress, bone of his bone, blood of his blood, his
roots going as deep as the ocean floor.
He
smiled in spite of the rocking journey. Continuity. Always continuity.
Suddenly
the porter ahead tripped on the rough terrain. The chair went down with a rough
scrape, the man himself sprawled on the ice. Quickly he picked himself up again
and, begging his Lordship's pardon, hoisted his end of the weight and started
off again at a more prudent pace.
Impressed
by the man's devotion, Thomas vowed to reward him upon his arrival at Fonthill.
It was a tragedy that all members of the working class did not have the same
spirit of duty and devotion.
She
had possessed only the thin chemise as a shield of protection.
Oh,
sweet Lord, how his arm hurt!
Beneath
the chemise, there had been nothing.
Within
the fortnight, he would be home.
"You
cause fear, sir."
"Faster!"
he shouted, longing for Billy's company, Billy's constant flow of words filling
the blank spaces and canceling memories.
Her
eyes in the lamplight had been—
"Faster!"
Thomas shouted again, aware that with undue speed both porters might slip and
fall and the sedan chair would go sprawling.
It
mattered little. There were too many images in the narrow confinement with him.
He leaned forward, trying to protect his arm.
As
the porters raced ahead, Thomas sat in confused and unhappy silence. He felt
dull and miserable. Holding his throbbing arm, he bent over on himself.
Still
peace would not come.
Eden
Castle
New
year's Morn
1793
Ragland
stood before the roaring fire in the Servants' Hall below Eden Castle, warming
first his backside, then his front. In his hands he held the dispatch which the
courier, half-frozen, had brought during the night. The man himself now lay
buried under robes on the couch near the far wall, being tended to by God's
saint, little Elfie, who apparently had been the only one up to receive him.
Ragland
glanced toward the young girl, still hovering over the man.
"Elfie,
let him be," Ragland suggested kindly. "You've done enough. Come,
fetch yourself a cup of hot tea, then rest."
The
girl, probably no more than fifteen, looked with loving eyes at the old man,
then instantly obeyed. As she moved toward the kettle, Ragland noticed that she
was growing, indeed flowering. She carried her head erect, no longer cowed and
frightened. Her hair was black and shiny and hung straight down like a cascade
of Whitby jet. True, she had never spoken, perhaps would never speak. But now
there was the glimmer of security in her eyes. She would make a fine, diligent
woman.
Ragland
watched her, deriving enormous pleasure from her, as he had from the beginning
when he'd first found her in a pitiful heap outside the castle gates. It was
good for a man's soul to lift something up and set it right again.
As
Elfie settled sleepily on her pallet in the comer of the room, Ragland turned
his attention back to the parchment in his hands. As he read, there was a
heaviness on his face. So! His Lordship was returning in the company of young
Beckford. Not that he hadn't expected it. Still, certain hard adjustments would
have to be made. He poured himself a cup of steaming tea and settled painfully
at the table in an attempt to put his thoughts in order before Dolly and the
other servants arrived.
Why
was it always the case that Eden Castle ran more smoothly when his Lordship was
away? He withdrew his gold watch, a gift from Lord Eden's father, from the
pocket of his coat. Seven o'clock! And still the staff were asleep in their
beds.
That
would have to change.
So
much to do! The chambers must be aired, then rewarmed, the linens sorted,
stores replenished, and menus planned. He eyed again the parchment on the
table. A Twelfth Night Celebration had been mentioned. Good Heavens! Eden
Castle had not seen a Twelfth Night Celebration since the death of Lord Eden's
older brother. All festivities had ceased with the arrival of that mournful
news.
Ragland
tilted the cup one way, then the other, watching the hot amber liquid follow
the direction of the cup. The point of his musing was the very hypothetical
consideration of how different things might have been if that kind and
interested older brother, James, had lived to inherit, instead of Thomas. Ragland
smiled at the consideration.
He
mused on the whimsical twists of Destiny, then consumed the hot tea in one
gulp, burning his throat in the process, but feeling the need of a mild
physical discomfort to match the one in his soul.
He
glanced about at the quiet room and noticed Elfie sitting on her pallet. As
Ragland looked at her, he saw the daughter he had never had and felt within his
heart a surge of love which almost canceled his bleak feelings concerning the
news of Lord Eden's return.
"So,
the fool comes home," he muttered. Still, in a way he was curious to know
everything, the condition of his Lordship's health after that scandalous
midsummer night's drama in London. The news had reached Eden Castle, brought by
the talkative Parson Branscombe, who had been in London at the time and had
reported all.
Had
his Lordship taken leave of his senses? In some bewilderment, Ragland shook his
head. If he lived to be one hundred and fifty, he would never understand the
aberrations of the peerage.
In
his musing he'd failed to see Elfie rise from her pallet, obviously taking note
of his distress. She poured a glass of ale and stood at his elbow, touching him
lightly, offering him warmth.
Startled,
he looked up. "Bless you," he murmured, taking the mug. She watched
him closely, her face alive with adoration. He returned her gaze and tenderly
smoothed down the black hair, stroking her as he would a beloved animal.
"Do you understand any of it?" he asked, smiling.
Apparently
understanding nothing but the smile, she grinned back at him and mimicked his
gesture of endearment and smoothed down his tufts of white hair with a tender
stroke.
His
old eyes filled with emotion at her obvious love. He vowed that he would retire
soon to a small cottage down in Mortemouth and take Elfie with him, and find
her a good husband, a considerate man who would understand her silences and
treat her gently and with dignity.
Wrapped
in such glorious visions of the future, he failed to hear the excited step
outside the servants' entrance, the crunching of new snow as Dolly Wisdom burst
through the high door in her heavy cloak, her fleshy face rosy with cold.
"News,
Ragland!" she exclaimed as she waddled heavily down the steps, drawing
from the folds of her skirts two well-wrinkled pieces of paper. "A
glorious New Year for poor Hartlow," she went on breathlessly. "Word
from both his girls! Look!" Again she insisted upon his attention as she
stomped on the receiving rug, scattering flakes of crusted snow. Through the
high opened door blew gusts of cold air. The drafts swept down the narrow
wooden staircase, causing the fire to leap and twist.
"Close
the door!" Ragland shouted, and countered with an announcement of his own.
"And I too have news!"
Laboriously
Dolly pulled herself back up the steps and closed the door, then turned about
and took in the room with a single glance, her sharp eyes resting at last on
the sleeping courier. "Who is that?" she demanded, apparently
offended by the presence of a stranger in her kitchen.
"If
you'd been here last night where you belonged," Ragland scolded, "you
might have found out then."
Sniffling
from the cold, Dolly plodded back down the stairs and placed the letters on the
table. She dabbed primly at her nose with a square of linen. "It was New
Year's," she explained curtly. "I spent the evening with Jenny and
Hartlow. What harm in that?"
Ragland
shrugged. He didn't want to pick a fight with Dolly, although he knew that the
leisurely comings and goings of the staffs must cease or he'd be held
responsible. Without another word he thrust the parchment at her.
He
gave her a moment, then spoke as she read. "He's arriving on Thursday, the
third. As you can see, it gives us all of two days. I suggest, madame, that you
summon your sleeping staff and inform them of what's ahead."
She
muttered under her breath. "A Twelfth Night Celebration. On such short
notice, it's impossible."
Ragland
shook his head, amazed that after fifty years in service, Dolly still was
capable of such a luxurious word. Impossible was for lords and ladies, never
for servants.
"Well,
it must be done," he concluded, "so I suggest that we move on the
matter. I'll send Jack Spade to the slaughterhouse for beef and pork. I suggest
you get your stores in order and—"
Dolly
interrupted. "Did he say anything about—" still eyeing the sleeping
messenger with a look of disapproval on her face.
"He
said nothing to me," Ragland replied. "Elfie let him in and warmed
him. There I found him, and in my opinion there he'll stay for the better part
of the day."
Dolly
turned with a smile to the silent girl sitting wide-eyed on the pallet. "Good
girl, Elfie," she said. "Bright girl to take charge like that."
Ragland
softened as both he and Dolly stared down on the lovely face. He knew that
Dolly shared his affection for the girl, and on this account he remembered the
letters which Dolly had triumphantly waved at him from the top of the stairs.
He urged her to "Have a cup and sit a while, a minute's quiet before the
storm, and tell me your news."
Dolly
smiled and thrust the pages at him. "Delivered last night, they was, by
Royal Post. Jenny let me bring them along, knowing you'd be interested."
Slowly
he took the well-mussed sheets of paper, adjusted his eyes to the dim light,
and commenced reading. Halfway down the page, he looked up. "From
Marianne?" he asked incredulously.
"Herself!"
pronounced Dolly. "And from Jane. Read!"
Ragland
read, first Marianne's rather idyllic letter, speaking of the glories of
London, mentioning specific buildings, her desire and effort to become a lady,
and mentioning her affection and devotion to her sister, mentioning too the
absence of a Mr. Pitch, the presence of a woman named Sarah, mentioning
everything except the scandal which had kept all of London abuzz for the better
part of the summer. Jane's letter, shorter, more stilted, he devoured quickly,
then turned his attention back to Marianne's elegant handwriting, a letter
which was truly remarkable in all of its omissions.
Confounded,
he looked up. "She doesn't say a word—"
Dolly
shrugged, though still beaming. "Perhaps the dreadful rumor was false.
Perhaps it was another female—"
Ragland
would not even dignify this nonsense with a reply. Parson Branscombe was, if
nothing else, an accurate reporter. It had been Marianne's room that had been
breached that night, Marianne's good name that had been further sullied.
Clearly the omissions had been acts of thoughtfulness, a desire on the girl's
part not to disturb Jenny and Dolly and old Hartlow.
Rapidly
he pushed the letters away. Nothing very mysterious about it. How was the poor
creature to tell her senseless father that Lord Eden was still pursuing her as
he would pursue a hare? All at once Ragland stood, his face red as flame. He
seized the parchment covered with Lord Eden's arrogant message, crumpled it in
his fist, and hurled it into the fire. As the flames devoured it, his face sank
into a kind of satisfaction.
Ignoring
Dolly's bewildered expression, he strode to the door which led into the
sleeping rooms of the staff. He shouted full-voiced, "Get up! Get up, all
of you! Lord Eden returns! There's work to be done, so up with you all.
Now!"
As
his voice resounded in echo about the underground chambers, Elfie backed into
the comer, her eyes wide in apprehension. Dolly tried to shush him, but to no
avail as, gathering up his black greatcoat, he swung it around his shoulders,
still shouting, "Awake! Awake! His Lordship returns!" his voice
tinged with fury, his face fixed as though bespeaking his determination to play
his role, at last stumbling up the narrow steps, still shouting, "Awake!
Awake! All up and busy. God returns!" taking his cries with him out into
the inner courtyard where a light snow was falling. He glanced about the empty
courtyard, seeing it not as it was, but as it would be in three days, filled with
citizens of Mortemouth dragged up to form the welcoming party, torches blazing,
garlands of holly strewn hither, the vast rooms of the castle ablaze with
thousands of candles, the combined, inhuman, and backbreaking effort of perhaps
one hundred people required to play out the charade, to set the stage, to cater
to the whims of one man.
Abruptly
Ragland lifted his face to Heaven as though begging for understanding. But the
clouds, slate-gray and spilling snow, provided him with no answer. It had
always been thus and it would always be thus.
On
that note of weak resolve, he drew the collar of his coat up about his neck and
set out, grim-faced, through the snow to the slaughterhouse where, under the
expert eye of Jack Spade, several animals would be selected for the singular
honor of having their throats cut, their intestines ripped out, their carcasses
stretched over well-tended fires for the satiation and gratification of Lord
Thomas Eden.
An
entourage consisting of three carriages and a half a dozen relief horses
started out from Fonthill in Wiltshire at eight on the morning of January the
third, and traveled the turnpike in a northwesterly direction, heading toward
North Devon and Eden Point.